You'll Never Look At Socks The Same Way Again
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: A filled request from Tumblr for some Blaine/GapGuy smut. Involves socks and second-person writing. Enjoy!


**A/N: As requested on Tumblr by whatthehufflepuff, "****I need Blaine/GapGuy smut where Blaine comes in while GapGuy is closing the store and they get it on with socks on. ASAP.****"**

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You're the last employee in the store, and you need to close up shop. You need to make sure everything is in its proper place; every last piece of clothing in the Gap is straightened up after people riffling through them.

You're removing your nametag and ear piece, you're about o grab your coat and shut off the lights, but then _he _comes in. Him, that guy, the one from earlier today, the one who was wearing a Dalton uniform, the guy who was surrounded by a bunch of other Dalton goers, the guy who started singing 'When I Get You Alone' seemingly to you, and who kept following you around, and the one who grabbed some random socks to buy just to talk to you, since you're the cashier, too, and oh God, what is he doing here?

"'M sorry, sir, but the store is closed," you say uncomfortably, because you know that it's your job to lock up the front doors, and you would have gotten to, too, if this guy hadn't shown up and slipped right in.

"I am well aware," the guy says, and he grins with this charming smile that you want to resist but can't, because how can he smile like that, smiling like he knows all your secrets? Knows that you're gay, and that you work here for the discounts on the amazingly dapper clothes. And now you're wondering how he looks out of that uniform…

You clear your throat, trying to sound professional. "Then sir, could you please leave? I need to close up."

The black-haired teen simply slides into an easily seductive pace around a few clothing racks, idly skimming his hands over a few articles of clothing, his fingers lingering just a hair too long, and you can't help but track the movement with your eyes. He pivots, so graceful, and eyes you with what only can be described as lustful.

"Sorry, but I don't plan on leaving quite yet. There was some truth in that song I sang to you today, you know. And look… we're alone," he says fluidly, but there's a tremor in his step, as if he's nervous that you'll reject him, or scared of getting caught.

But you can't help feel intrigued, and admittedly aroused, at his suggestion. "Are you sexually propositioning me, sir?" you say, smiling a little now, because now the tacked on 'sir' is just to maintain mystery and impersonality between the both of you, but you know that things might get pretty personal soon, and you can't help but feel excited about it, your heart drumming in your throat. You casually rake your hands through your curly blond hair and wonder idly if the young man across from you has naturally curly hair, too, since his hair is purposely layered with hair gel and combed tightly.

And the dirty thought of, 'Is his ass as tight as his combed hair?' slips into your mind, and you blush a bit, and he doesn't miss the color on your face, the color burning your ears.

"Why yes, I believe I am," the Dalton singer grins at you wolfishly. "Did I not make myself clear with the song I sang to you?"

And you can't take it anymore, because you resisted and ran away during store hours, but he's here, now, and really, how can you turn down such a tempting offer?

You close the distance between the two of you, and grab him roughly by the lapel and yank his mouth to yours. He moans into his own lips, and you can feel the vibrations blending into your own mouth. And he instantly accepts it, bringing his hands up to tug in your long hair, and you grunt approvingly at the sensation, because he tugged _just right _so that it didn't hurt, and _fuck, _who is this guy and why haven't you ever seen him around before? This is just what you needed. _He's _just what you needed.

You waste no time, because you don't want to get caught, don't want anyone to notice, even though the metal grates that block out just about all visuals have already been tugged down, and only the door is –

_Wait,_ you realize. _I can just take this to the back room, the storage room._

And even though you hate breaking the heated, groping kiss you're tangled up in – one of your hands on his hip, your tongue in his mouth, him occasionally running his teeth across your bottom lip, his hands in your hair, one of your hands guiding his head while you kiss so you don't ram each other, and both of your chests pressing close, rubbing lightly, because there's no time or necessity for niceties – you break it anyway, because this can't be done standing without support, and definitely can't be done on any of the nice clothes around you.

"Follow me," you whisper breathlessly, huskily, and he doesn't think twice to follow you. You grasp his wrist a little roughly, glancing back to find him biting down on his bottom lip, his eyes locked on your ass, and you just smile and think almost nothing of it, or what you're about to do, because casual sex is normal. Clearly.

In the store, you forgot to shut off the lights just yet, and because of that, the radio keeps playing. 'I'm Yours' by Jason Mraz, and suddenly you notice that the guy is singing along beneath his breath, and _shit, _it's so sexy when he sings like that, and you have to hide your arousal as you tell him to wait as you return to the front of the store and lock those damn front doors.

You return to the storage room – a somewhat large space full of all sorts of surfaces that are convenient for sex, and plenty of supplies to help clean up afterward – and you're not calculating again, no, not at all, as you return your body to his, your hands sliding under his jacket and forcing him to shed it while he works on your belt.

"I'm going to warn you now," the singer hums quietly as you start loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, "I'm not… very experienced…"

"Like that has to do with anything?" you assure him, and playfully lean in to suckle and nip at his ear and down his jaw as your hands, finished with his topmost clothing, move down to his pants to undo his belt like he did yours. He kisses messily, haphazardly, down your neck. You moan lowly, and it makes him keen in response, pressing closer.

"What… about my name?" he says between pants. "Does… that have to do… with anything?"

"Nope," you tell him. "This is spontaneous and impersonal, just causal sex. So don't talk too much and don' ask to swap names, and everything will be just fine."

He nods dumbly, refraining from saying anything more. He wants to – he is quite the talker – but he resists, because he doesn't want to mess this up with you. And you realize with this a bit of a smirk and just as the two of you are nearly completely naked, the Dalton boy stops you, and you frown.

"No… leave my socks on. I get cold without them."

And somehow, when socks during sex is normally a turn-off for you, you're kind of becoming the opposite as he winks up at you, cocking his head slightly as the pair of you lean over onto a table, one piled with boxes of fresh socks, and some are just like the pair he tried to buy today, and somehow you start laughing even as you're rocking forward to scoot his body up onto the table, your lengths brushing momentarily. And the laughter is both out of euphoria (this is actually happening, isn't it?) and amusement, because. Well. _Socks._

You're kissing again, quickly as that, and he's toying with your nipples and it takes all the self-restraint you have not to groan in pleasure from his cool fingers on your bare chest, rubbing over those sensitive buds. Smirking a little into the kisses, you hover over him and press up flush against him, pressing his hands between your chests, and letting your erections bump and slide with that natural lubrication, and loudly, the boy beneath you moans and gasps and clutches suddenly at your back, hands snaking around and scratching down either side of your spine.

And this time you do moan, but softly, and as you lean back to gaze down at his lightly tanned skin and flushed cheeks and brown eyes and seductive triangular brows and smooth chest, you click your tongue at him, pressing a finger to his lips.

"Can't have you being that loud," you insist as you lean over him, balancing on one hand to the table's surface by his ear. You reach behind yourself and grab a bundle of socks, tearing the package open with your teeth – you'll pay for it later with your next paycheck, and just say you accidentally lost a pair – and shove the cloth into his mouth. "Shh," you whisper sensually as you lean into his ear and glide your lips down to bite his shoulder.

You then use that same hand to reach around your side and press your fingers into yourself. Dry, because you never much liked spit as a lubricant, and besides, it'll be fine. It always is. Unless –

You withdraw your finger and smile ruefully at the boy below you, who seems a little preoccupied with the fact that he realizes you only bit him to distract him from the fact that he wasn't going to be bottom like he thought. "Do you have any condoms?" you want to know, because bareback is a little too far for casual sex, and who knows, maybe he has something stashed in those multiple pockets of his scattered all over the cement floor.

He makes a muffled sound, removes the sock, and says politely, "Oh; yes, I do indeed. I apologize for my forgetfulness."

He gently presses on you to let himself up, acting casual in his all-but-the-socks nudity, fully erect but not giving a damn, looking sexually frustrating and fuckable to you as you watch him bend down and retrieve said item.

"I have a small tube of lube, too," he informs you, smiling genuinely as he turns back around and climbs like a professional stripper onto the table. He wags the items at you playfully and seems so proper about all of this even during the heat of the moment, even when this all should feel embarrassing and stupid. Instead, this is like something out of a porno, and now your member is leaking with pre-come and you are almost unable to hide this fact from him, and he just smiles instead.

And vaguely you hope he knows that there are no cameras back here (which could be dangerous if somebody snuck in and tried to steal from the storage, but it seems the Gap feels comfortable with its conditions and locks and employees and doesn't set up any security where it isn't necessary, probably to help save money), because otherwise it would kill the mood, knowing they're being recorded.

"Should you or should I?" he wants to know, and you snort and snatch the lube from him.

"Me. You can just worry about slipping that dainty little glove on," you tease, smiling gently, because you're a sensitive, artistic guy, and he's a hair manipulative and condescending, and somehow you balance each other out during all of this, and you find it addicting and relaxing and you can only hope something silly like love doesn't blossom from this unadulterated lust.

It takes a few minutes of prep – rocking back and forth onto your own fingers, watching him stroke himself over the condom, watching him watch your face until you have to close your eyes as the pain recedes and the pleasure kicks in. And he murmurs something, thinks better of it, and grabs the bundle of socks and stuffs it back into his own mouth, and _shit,_ somehow that gag is hot, and you have to bite back a whine as you speed up your fingers in yourself, hooking the pointer finger and wiggling the middle finger until you're gasping, and you just _need him inside you already._

"Okay, I'm going to… now," you pant, and maneuver yourself to straddle him, slowly guiding yourself to the tip of his manhood, only slipping your fingers out at the last second. He hisses through the socks, and you hiss behind your teeth as you slowly sink downward, and he fills you completely. You hadn't expected him to feel like this – he's not as thick as you are, and not as long as you thought – but it feels fucking fantastic, and it's the best thing you've felt in general in a long, long time.

He trembled beneath you, being a gentleman, trying not to move or buck or grind unless you want him to, unless you're read for him to. And he's so cute like that, saving you from any more pain than you're already feeling as you adjust to accommodate him that you just have to bend down and kiss his chin, then his cheek, whatever you can reach around the gag as you lean upward, sliding him out part of the way. He gives a quiet, muffled moan, and then can't hold back anymore once you whisper in his ear that it's okay to move all he wants, because this is just fine.

He loses control. He starts thrusting up into you – "a dapper gent on the streets and a freak in the sheets," it seems – and he's grunting and calling out random things inside of the socks in his mouth, and you idly press your open mouth to the gag to feel the moist heat coming from his breath through the fabric, and all the while you're moving with him, riding up and down in tandem with his bucks, and it feels so good, so amazing, so much better than anything else you've ever known despite the circumstances, the chance that you'll never meet again, despite _everything_ –

And it doesn't take long for you to lose yourself. You press your nose into his hair, damp with sweat and falling out of its perfectly combed style as your use one hand to grip and tug at his head, your face pressed into the opposite side, your breath on his neck. And you shudder, shoulders bunching, muscles clenching around him where he throbs inside of you, and you feel the white-hot burst as it crawls up your thighs and makes your groin twitch and splatters into both of your stomachs. You turn and bite again at his ear, nibbling a little violently, but not enough to truly hurt him.

At this, he arches up into you, and instead of keeping the gag in his mouth, it falls out as his jaw drops and he's _singing,_ "My father's last naaaaame~!" like he did earlier, but louder and off-key and with more of a rasp in his voice, the wail like a flare gunshot, shooting up into the air around them, bright red, as if the lyrics were tangible.

And it's almost enough to make you come again if you hadn't just already.

Panting heavily, you unsheath him from yourself and disengage entirely, shakily sitting up on the table, your legs dangling over the sides as he lays there, arms stretched outward, eyes closed, trying to clam his heartbeat. You glance over at him, bring one knee up and hug your own ankle, a final shiver running through you as you realize you left your own socks on, too – how did you not notice this before? – and that you can also never look at socks the same way again.

"That was… fantastic," he murmurs, smiling dreamily, and opening his eyes to glance at you.

You chuckle to yourself, chuckle at him, and lean over to help him sit up as you place a kiss on his lips and ignore the disgusting necessity of him removing the condom and tying it off. But then your smile falls and you glance away. "I kind of hate one-night stands. I know I said I didn't want this to get personal, but…"

The Dalton boy automatically launches into one of his softer, more caring modes, and places a hand on the your forearm. "Hey," he says sweetly, and kisses your shoulder, then your neck. "Who said we need this to end after one time? Tell you what: any time you want a small something, you can call me. I'll give you my number, and you can give me yours."

"That makes me sound like a male hooker," you laugh, because it is just a little bit funny.

He grins, bobbing his head like he agrees, but then shakes it rapidly. "What? No, of course not. More like… casual friends with hefty benefits."

"I… actually like the sound of that," you say with a quirk of your eyebrows and a twitch of your lips akin to a brief smile. "You got yourself a deal."


End file.
